The Comfort of a Mess

My new occasional watering hole is a mess. For material it cannot be beat. The patrons make it pathetic and fascinating—not an uncommon combination. The sense of dysfunctional family is undeniable. I seem to be warmly accepted by the two main bartenders. Patiently tolerated as a novelty of sorts by the regulars. As a whole, the customer base is unappealing at best. An utterly useless lot at worst. Although I am looking for nothing—save a place to rest my tired ass and bathe in a cold beer—I feel as though I am doing research. Aging/maturing has blessed me with an “I simply don’t give a fuck” attitude that allows me to be comfortable most anywhere. Leave me to mine; I’ll leave you to yours. As such, things most always work out fine. Eventually you’ll get that guy who is just incapable of leaving you to yours. Thankfully, we’ve not crossed paths yet. But it is bound to happen. My uncontrollable smirk (as innocent as it may be) will eventually get me into trouble. If history is still on my unique side though, I will deftly talk my way out of it and successfully save face. If, on the other hand, history has taken leave of me, well then it may not be pretty. For my pugilistic skills are more Barbie than Barbarian.

Such concerns are silly, I believe, for I’ve had no issues yet. I’ll keep going I’m sure.

There are too many stories there for me to stop.